Sharing Shabbat

By Brother Stavros


The morning of the last Saturday in October, 2018, Robert Bowers barged into the Tree of Life synagogue in the Squirrel Hill Neighborhood of Pittsburgh and with an AR15-style assault rifle proceeded to commit the deadliest attack on Jews in the history of the United States.


I heard from a few different friends that there was a nation-wide call for people to support their Jewish friends and neighbors by sharing the shabbat service the following Saturday.

Over the years I have represented New Skete in various ecumenical and interfaith events within our area. I grew up in the northwest part if Washington, DC, with a Jewish school and three different synagogues within walking distance from my home. Our next-door neighbors let me light the shabbat candles now and then, and my mother sometimes sent me to the delicatessen when she needed something on a Sunday when “Blue Laws” shuttered the neighborhood markets.

So I was well disposed to make an effort to find a synagogue.

The small city of Bennington has a correspondingly small synagogue. Years ago, Br. Elias and I went there for a Bar Mitzvah for the son of our veterinarian.


Entering with head covered by my skoufia (monks’ hat), I was immediately made welcome. The rabbi and congregation president got me a prayer book. I explained that my presence was in response to the shooting in the Pittsburgh congregation. They were not aware of the call but were delighted by the notion and clearly pleased to have me.


The rabbi was fairly young and had a good voice. Most of the people were my age, but there was a young family with two boys, maybe 8 and 12 years old.

While everyone was still reeling from the massacre the rabbi thought it would be wise to take some time to reflect on the nature of violence and evil. He prepared what I would call a “Lectio Divina” and passed out several sheets with passages from the Hebrew Scriptures and the Talmud. He then asked us to read and silently let them soften our minds and hearts, and then speak to what we found.


The first one he called on was the older of the two brothers. The boy was not shy and expressed his discomfort with the texts that called for vengeance and death: the “eye for an eye” variety. I found his response amazingly perceptive. The conversation widened and lasted for about twenty minutes.

I contributed verses from Micah 6:8, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God,” as a counterbalance to the thundering Yahweh texts that are probably better known.


According to the news accounts, the Pittsburgh murderer had posted anti-Semitic statements on social media before the shooting, expressing anger that a nonprofit Jewish organization in the neighborhood helped refugees (of any denomination) settle in the United States.

I find this doubly disturbing in that hatred of Jews has a long and toxic history, and this shooting marks the most fatal attack in the United States. But secondly, the association with hatred of refugees tragically reflects the current political climate where demonizing asylum seekers is a gambit to curry political allegiance.

The slaughter of Muslims in a New Zealand mosque, the Christmas massacre of Christians in Sri Lanka, and the mass shooting of African-American members of the congregation at the Emmanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina, a few years ago, when the 21-year-old white racist perpetrator wrote “I am not sorry. I have not shed a tear for the innocent people I killed” all show how serious and pervasive the social and religious plate-tectonics of fear and hate have forced up the lava of racism the world over. This sadly shows how the words of Micah are utterly perverted by the cultural and religious arrogance of extremists who believe that violence pleases God.

I felt it was a morning well spent, for even the most insignificant bridge-building pleases the Lord and refreshes the sense of our common humanity.

During our midwinter break, a second occasion arose for engagement with our Jewish sisters and brothers. It occurred in the beautiful town of Newport, Rhode Island. On a little hill just a few blocks from the harbor where we were staying stands the oldest Jewish house of worship in America, the Touro Synagogue. It was dedicated in 1763 and was visited by George Washington in 1790. It was founded in a very liberal spirit, and the Hebrew forebears had no problem erecting a temple



in a very prominent location (not so elsewhere in colonial America). The architect, Peter Harrison, designed a dignified two-story edifice with large windows and a handsome portal, situated a in small gated park.

I approached on foot on a biting-cold Friday evening. Warm golden light from chandeliers glistened within. The windows had the unmistakable warp of old glass. The sun had set and the street was dark, but I could pick out two figures in yellow safety vests.










They were armed guards, one private, the other a policeman; they were shuffling around trying to keep warm. I wished them a good evening and asked if the gate gave access to the synagogue. It did, and I was quickly at the heavy doors, wondering about their acceptance of a stranger (though I hardly looked threatening at a dumpy 5ʹ5ʺ). I also thought: what a shame, literally, that Jewish communities nationwide now need protection.

Currents of light and heat swept past me as I opened the door. The first sight I had was the rabbi taking off his tallit (prayer shawl). The temple is laid out in the Sephardic tradition, which features the Bima at the west end of the center floor of the room. The early Christians borrowed this feature from our Hebrew forebears and called it the Ambo. It serves the same purpose: an elevated podium for the proclamation of the Sacred Scriptures. The reading desk was wide and covered with a fine cloth to enable the tall Torah scrolls to be unrolled. The Bima was enclosed by a waist-high banister. At the other end of the room was the Ark, now closed by cabinet doors set into the east wall. Beautiful chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, the eternal lamp was suspended before the Ark, and standing candles flanked it. Simple Shaker-like black Windsor chairs and benches were ranked, facing east. What a cultural gift that a previous restoration puts the temple in harmony with the rest of the colonial-era monuments of Newport, rocked by legal battles reaching the Supreme Court over ownership of the building.



There was a mild murmur from the worshipers as they struggled into their coats. It was then I realized I had the wrong time and the service had just concluded. There were friendly nods of greeting from all; the rabbi introduced himself and the president, who with his red hair and sturdy build looked like a Norseman. He took me by the arm to show me around just as I was explaining my tardy appearance.

They probably never had been visited by a monk, or not recently at least. The president immediately asked me if I could come for the Saturday morning service and give a little talk about monks. I explained that I had to head back to Cambridge the next day but that I would be happy someday to honor his request.

On the north wall was the congregation president’s bench, and it is thought that George Washington was invited to sit there. My guide called my attention to the other historical and religious objects. I asked if I might take some photos, but he explained that as Shabbat had commenced it was not appropriate.

He was getting ready to lock up as we headed for the door. I thanked him and observed the contrast between the two armed guards at the gate trying to keep warm in the bitter cold and the warm welcome and light-filled synagogue. We briefly shared dismay at the rise of hate crimes by extremist deluded in thinking that God, or races, or nations, sanction such violence.




We exchanged parting wishes for Shabbat shalom, Sabbath peace.








Photo credits - Bennington, VT, the author, Newport, RI courtesy of Congregation Jeshuat Israel.